Cross Contamination
by Elementalist
Summary: Craig Tucker has been sort-of, kind-of, maybe-possibly crushing on Tweek since the fourth grade. Problem is, Tweek doesn't seem to catch on. This fic is made with one quart coffee, two cups of love, and a pinch of understanding. Serve Hot and enjoy!
1. Mochachino

**Mochachino**: A mocha-cappuccino that is prepared by using dark chocolate syrup, espresso coffee, half-n-half steamed milk, and foam. Bitter tasting. Served warm.

* * *

Coffee. He could smell it every time Tweek walked into the room, thermos raised to his lips to take a nervous sip as he found his desk in the safety of the back. It, Craig thought as he would watch the boy jerk into his seat, followed him like a sickly-sweet, yet somehow still bitter, miasma or aura.

Which made perfect sense as Tweek was the son of the town's coffee one-stop-shop, Harbucks, owner/manager. Kid even worked there after school most days, spazzing-out behind the counter to get each mochachino just right, down to the pointless layer of steamed milk that crowned each one. Craig knew because he made it a point to visit the shop every few days and order the pre-mentioned beverage. Not that he was a coffee nut or really even enjoyed its taste—it was Tweek he stayed for and the preparation for a single Venti-sized mochachino took nearly ten minutes, which gave him an excuse to linger.

Plus, it was easier to talk with him if he didn't have a route to escape by.

Normally, Craig would attempt to say at least a hello to him every day, trying to lay down the basic foundation of friendship, but the kid either always ignored him or screamed something about some sort of conspiracy and take jerky steps away from him.

At work, Tweek _had_ to stay and make that ridiculously precise drink and Craig was free to talk to him as much as he could in that short time slot, even if Tweek hardly said anything back. Most Craig would ever get was a mutter or two that he couldn't quite catch, or Tweek would tell him it was too much pressure to talk to him—'cause cooking up those difficult drinks for overtly picky drinkers wasn't?—and dodge into the back once Craig's mochachino was finished.

But today would be different. Craig could feel it. Or some gay shit like that.

Today Tweek was going to talk to him. 

* * *

-clears off cobwebs and blows dust away- Crackers! I've been gone for-_ever_! Eh. Sorry. I've been working on original stuff that I can't post up on here so my stories are unmothered to. -pets them- Maybe I should update my other shit instead of posting new crap. . .

This was a three word challenge fanfic given to me by my friend Wendy (I think she has an account on here. . .Heartbeatstatic? or something like that). She _loved_ it so I decided to spread the love.

Enjoy.

And review?

-- Ele.


	2. Iced Chai Tea Latte

**Iced Chai Tea Latte**: Black tea infused with cardamom, cinnamon, black pepper and star anise added to milk and ice. Tastes like pumpkin pie. Spicy and sweet.

* * *

"Mochachino. Vinte. Heavy foam."

Tweek glanced up at him, a soft frown sealing his lips as Craig leaned against the counter, which, as the nicely-printed sign stated, was something he shouldn't do—'please'. He turned his back to him in the next instant, not even getting on to him like he would usually do. Craig tapped his fingers on the counter-top, watching Tweek's back.

Craig had to appreciate how quick Tweek could be. One moment, he pressed freshly ground coffee beans into a metal measuring spoon and the next he slid it into the espresso-maker, flitting away afterwards to pull out the galleon of milk from the cabinet-fridge and to grab the chocolate syrup pump from the cluster of similar bottles without even looking. He masterfully poured a full cup of milk into the steamer then threw a cup, which contained a thick coat of syrup at the bottom, underneath the espresso machine to catch the frothy flow of the strong coffee. By the time he grabbed that back, stirred it smooth, and stepped back over to the steamer, the milk was perfect. All he had to do was spoon it into the Styrofoam cup and add an additional drizzle of syrup to finish it.

Five minutes had passed, Craig realized, and Tweek had said absolutely nothing. Not even a 'hello' when he first walked in or an 'okay' when Craig placed his order. Maybe his gut feeling had been wrong—maybe Tweek was just going to ignore him, like every other day.

But then, when Tweek set the cup on the countertop for Craig to take, he actually asked him a question.

"W-why. . .do you get this," he muttered, low enough so Craig had to strain to catch each word.

Why did he get what? Butterflies whenever he and Tweek were in the same fucking room? The answer to the why for that was simple: Craig had been crushing on the spaz since the fourth grade, ever since Eric Cartman and his gang pinned them against each other to see who was stronger. But he doubted that was what Tweek meant.

Why _what_? He glanced down at the steaming cup and something clicked. Oh. Duh. The fucking mochachino.

He shrugged and looked back up at Tweek, right into his spring-green eyes. "Because I like it, I guess. Isn't that why people normally order something every day?"

Though his tone was light, Craig meant it as a stab of sarcasm. Damn his roots and I-don't-give-a-fuck manner.

Tweek ignored it and frowned even more, his body shaking slightly from lack of caffeine intake. Apparently, five straight minutes of preparing coffee but not being able to drink any was enough to send him into minor DTs. Craig had to bite back a smile.

"I-I—gah!" He violently tugged at his hair, on hand lashing out to grab a nearby cup. After filling it to the top with House Brew, he took a long swallow. His shaking lessened for a second then picked back up, worse than before. "I _meant_ why do you get something you don't even like?"

Huh?

Craig looked back down to his complex drink and picked it up, taking a long sip. Like always, he had to prevent himself from grimacing and slip into a pleasured smile instead.

"I do like this," he lied. "Or I wouldn't get it every time I come in."

Tweek stared at him with hard, green eyes, scrutinizing. "No, you don't," he muttered matter-of-factly, as if he fucking _knew_. "T-the only people who drink that are people who w-want to—Nngh—" He took another sip of his coffee. "—appear like something they're not. . ."

Craig almost dropped his cup. "The. . .fuck are you talking about?"

Pulling at his shirt with one hand and keeping the other curled around his coffee mug, he explained: "It has an. . .expensive name. . .People get it to impress people and n-nothing else. It tastes gross. . ."

He took another swig of his chocolate-y, yet fucking bitter drink, frowning now. ". . .name someone else who gets this. . ."

Tweek lowered his mug an inch. ". . .Mayor McDaniels. . .every Tuesday after her meetings." He jerked suddenly, spilling a bit of his coffee on his apron. "S-sometimes Kyle's mom and Mr. Stoch. . .And they're others. . . ."

"So. . .you think I'm trying to impress someone by getting a damn _drink_," he asked, inky brow cocked up his forehead. Honestly, what Tweek was saying happened to be true so far—Craig _was_, subconsciously, trying to impress Tweek the whole time. Along with allowing him to stay close for a few lengthy minutes, something about the way mo-cha-chi-no rolled off the tongue made it seem. . .better than everything else. Something that people will notice.

It had the right effect, just the wrong outcome. Tweek took plenty notice—in the drink itself not the teen ordering it, secretly pining for his attention.

Tweek shrugged in reply to his question. ". . .maybe. I d-don't know. . .It's just. . .it's just not right for you."

Craig couldn't help but ask, "Well. . .what is?"

Opening his mouth to say something, Tweek covered it with his mug, downing the rest of his glass before going back over to the clunky machinery hogging up all the available counter space. Craig didn't know what he was doing but he stayed where he was, watching him dart around. A few minutes later, which stretched on in silence, Tweek came back to him with clear plastic cup filled with a tan-colored liquid.

He jabbed a hand into the front of his apron, digging for a straw, his movements jerky and sudden. Craig had to reach out and pluck the cup from his hands before he split it everywhere. A strong, warm aroma of cinnamon met his nose and he eyed the drink with a curious expression.

"It's-It's a—um—a Chai Tea Latte over ice," Tweek mumbled, finally managing to withdraw a single straw from his pocket. He held it out to Craig, who took it out of courtesy. Hands free now, the barista pulled at his shirt, watching, waiting for Craig to try what he had made.

So he did.

His mouth was flooded with the strong taste of pumpkin pie—what the hell? How could something be sweet (sugar?) then bitter (like the crust had burnt in the oven?) then spicy (cinnamon and even. . .pepper?) then still maintain a delicious smoothness that had him downing the Tea until ice cubes bumped into his teeth?

Shit was fucking _phenomenal_.

When he finally lowered his cup again, he saw that Tweek had the smallest possible smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. And for good reason—he had been _right_. This Chai Tea whatever was a thousand times better than that friggin' mochachino. He had a new favorite now.

But why _this_? Craig asked him, resisting the strong urge to finish the rest of the beverage.

Tweek jerked when Craig spoke, looking startled, as if he hadn't expected him to say anything—to be stunned in to silence—and took a long moment to think over his answer.

". . .I think. . .it's because _you_ don't know what you are yet—Nnngh. . .No, that sounds stupid—" Shaking hands knotted at his hair and pulled, start-firing his brain. ". . .No, it's. . .it's that you're a little of everything. . .Sweet, spicy, bitter. . .a-all of those—"

His cheeks suddenly went pink under Craig's intense, and slightly bewildered, stare and he yanked off his apron. "Dad! Dad, I'm taking a break, man!"

And with that, he disappeared into the back.

Mr. Tweak showed up a few seconds later, covering for his son, in the process of knotting his own apron over his fine-tucked manger shirt and khaki pants.

He gave Craig a wide smile. "Welcome to Harbucks," he cheerfully recited, stopping in front of him, and laid his hands on the countertop.

That was all he said, though. And Craig stood there for a long while, wondering why the hell Tweek had just left like that and how much his drinks were going to be. Only when he noticed it was almost four, which he knew from experience was when rush hour started for the shop, did he ask,

"How. . .much?" He lifted up his drink to specify, hand already in his pocket to fish out bills.

Mr. Tweak pondered that, long fingers tapping his chin in thought. "Hm. . .normally it'd be around seven bucks. . .but, for today," he paused, glancing in the direction of the back, where Tweek had vanished, ". . .today it'll be on the house."

". . .why," Craig had to ask, still trying to pull money out of his pocket.

"Because, son, that's what Tweek asked me to tell you."

* * *

'Chapter 2', darlings (the two that've reviewed, ha!)~

Enjoy it.

'Chapter 3' will be up soon. Probably. . .Wednesday. Or Thursday.

Review?

-- Ele.

-runs off to class-


	3. Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte

**Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte**: Espresso, steamed nonfat milk and sugar-free cinnamon dolce flavored syrup. Usually served warm unless specified. Whipped cream is optional.

* * *

**It** had been days since Craig last went to the coffee shop.

Hell, it'd been days since he even _looked_ at Tweek. Something about the way Tweek just _left_ like that didn't settle right with him—meaning, basically enough, that he was a little more than pissed. Though, he did understand that, on some level, he deserved it.

Somehow.

He tried not to think about it more than he had too—which was more than he wanted. Every time he so much as _smelled_ coffee, he thought of Tweek, of how he left him alone in the shop with just his eccentric dad for company.

And why Tweek had asked his dad to give him that tea thing for free. Was it because he wanted him to leave sooner than later? Or was it because—

Was he really going to think like that? No. He learned from experience that getting his hopes up would only end in disaster. Like when he was ten and thought Stripe would live forever—he found his beloved guinea pig dead on the floor of his cage, four years later. So much for infinity.

But there was a chance, one as tiny as Wendy Testaburger's waist. Maybe he should try to take advantage of it.

All that could happen was failure, right?

. . .right?

* * *

After school, Craig walked to Harbucks, hands driven deep into his empty pockets as he scuffed the sidewalk with his Chucks.

He took his sweet time but even that got him there ten minutes before Tweek's shift started. Great. What was he supposed to do now?

The only thing he could think of was to go inside, sit at the bar and wait for him, something he really didn't want to do. . .

Mr. Tweak worked until his son's shift started and filled in for him while he took breaks. That meant Craig would have to deal with him until Tweek showed up. Ten minutes was a long time to spend in his company, though. Was it worth it?

Sure beat standing in the cold, he reasoned as he pushed open the door. Snowdrift followed him inside, flurries sticking to his cap and the dark hair that peeked from beneath it. When had it started snowing?

"Welcome to Harbucks, Craig!" Mr. Tweak flashed him that big, bright smile again and Craig had no choice but to grimace one back in return.

". . .Hey."

"Long time no see. We were beginning to wonder where our best costumer ran off to."

We? His smile disappeared, replaced by a heavy frown. What exactly did he mean by that?

Craig shrugged—what else _could_ he do?—and walked over to one of the many plush chairs, sinking down into the comfortable cushions. Mr. Tweak didn't say anything else. In fact, he left after Craig took his seat.

He was about to wonder about it when Tweek yanked open the door to the back, his apron half-way on and twisted around his legs, nearly tripping him as he stumbled out into the shop. He looked at Craig, an embarrassed flush tinting his cheeks, his eyes wide.

"Gah—you c-came back," he muttered, fidgeting. "I thought—"

Craig watched him, quiet, as he spoke, weighed down in his chair, still. Tweek noticed and his words halted, a look of chagrin twisting his features. With a jerk, he spun around and walked behind the counter, through with speaking.

As Tweek started to fiddle with the machinery, Craig got up, frown fixed, stepping over to him. "Hey—" Tweek didn't look at him, now mixing up something in a stainless steel cup.

"Hey."

Nothing.

Well, _fuck_.

"Hey—Tweek—" _Goddamnit, turn the fuck around and look at me_.

Irritated now, he smacked his hands against the countertop, effectively startling Tweek into both looking back at him and causing him to spill a little of what ever he was carrying over to the blender. "What were you saying," Craig continued now that he had Tweek's attention. "What did you think?"

All Tweek did was twitch. Afterwards, he spun around to finish what he was doing, explaining nothing.

"Fuck, just talk to me," he snapped, irritation now a seething anger. Why didn't Tweek just _look_ at him? Fuck. All Craig had done was _listen_.

The sudden _whrrr_ of the blender hit him like a smack in the jaw. Now he was overtly _trying_ to ignore him, which just pissed him off.

Not that he could do anything about it.

The bell over the doorway uttered a soft tinkling sound that snagged Craig's attention. He looked over seeing Bebe Stevens stride into the shop, her six-inch heels _clack-clack-clack_ing on the tile. Gifts from Clyde. Craig had been there when he picked them out, even suggesting choosing the blue over the slut-red he originally picked up.

"Tweek, hun!"

Craig side-stepped out of her way, invisible, as she leaning up against the counter, standing in the spot he'd just left. Her giant tits pressed against the glass top, nearly spilling from the v-neck of her tight-fitting sweater, and she tapped an impatient heel against the floor. "Tweek," she drawled, waiting.

He glanced back at her then just as quickly away, fumbling to turn off the blender so he could hear her.

"Nnngh—y-yeah, Bebe? The. . .the usual?"

She nodded, blond curls bouncing, as she slipped a glossy smile in to place. "Yes."

"G-got it. . ."

Ignoring what he had started on before, he went to grab the cinnamon dolce syrup (again, without having to really look for it) and the other necessary ingredients to make whatever the hell Bebe's usual was. Three minutes later, he set a small to-go cup in front of her. "T-there you go. . ."

"Thank you." She laid out some money, knowing the price by heart it seemed, and sauntered out of the café with the cup to her lips.

Craig watched her leave, making sure she was gone before resuming his stance in front of the counter, hands against the glass top now. "Tweek," he tried again.

"S-she gets a Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte," he told him, facing his machines again, unhooking the blender so he could pour out the contents into another to-go cup.

". . .I don't care what the hell she gets," Craig retorted. He frowned at his back. "What were you telling me before?"

Silence.

Then a soft _thump_ as Tweek set the cup next to Craig's hands.

"H-here. . .it's—ah—a Chai Smoothie. D-don't worry about paying for it. . .just. . .take it and go away."

What? Like _hell_ he was.

"No. I didn't come here for some stupid drink—" Oh. Well, shit. He snapped his lips shut but kept his eyes on Tweek.

". . .then. . .what _did_ you come for," Tweek asked, quietly, his hands nervously twisting in the front of his dark green apron.

A moment passed. Then two. Three. Craig thought over all the things he could say, something like 'I come for you' or some other gay-sounding bullshit. But he couldn't bring himself to say it.

Instead, on a sudden, random whim, he told him, voice hushed,

"The usual."

* * *

:3 There's one more 'chapter' after this and then it's finished~

Review? Pleeeeease? Haha~ Oh! Speaking of reviews! D: zeromotion reviewed my story -squee- so I dedicate the next 'chapter' to her! Not this one. XD This one isn't good enough!

I love you all! : ) You all make writing worthwhile~ (I just kinda bugged when zeromotion did 'cause I'm, like, super in love with her artwork~~ -swoon- )


	4. Espresso Con Panna

**Espresso Con Panna**: Espresso topped with whipped cream.

* * *

Tweek was quiet for a long time until, finally, he pointed at himself. "Me. . ?"

In reply, Craig turned his cup in his hands, nodding once to clarify that Tweek had guessed right. "Yeah," he muttered after a moment zipped by, recalling how Tweek ignored him when he hadn't said anything before. "Yeah. You."

"O-oh. . ." He glanced down at his feet, shuffling them, blushing once again.

That was it? Craig just confessed some pretty strong feelings for him and all he get was an "o-oh"?

It was stupid, but he felt kind-of gypped. Just a little. Beneath all the awkwardness he suddenly felt too.

He took a step back and shot a look at the door. ". . .Listen, I'm going to go. . ." Another step.

Tweek's head shot up and he held out his hands, as if to snag Craig's coattails as he all but ran to the exit. "Wait," he said, voice surprisingly calm. "Wait a second. . .d-don't—gah! Don't go!"

Craig stopped and waited.

"I—uh—I'm glad you come. . ." His words came out rushed, jumbled in a quiet mumble Craig swore he'd heard before. ". . .I like you. . ."

And that's when it all clicked—the soft, quiet phrases Tweek would utter when his back was turned, the free drinks, the bewildered relief when he saw Craig had come back. Tweek liked him, too.

For the first time since he was eight, Craig Tucker actually smiled.

* * *

A Chai Tea Smoothie turned out to be even better than a regular old iced one—as Craig would know. He drank at least ten off them (all free, of course) as he waited for Tweek to get off work. Which wasn't necessary, Tweek told him every so often. Craig could go home and they would just see each other at school.

But he didn't feel like waiting all night in an empty bed, with only his pillow for company, anxious for the morning. Besides, what all could they do at _school_? Say hello and maybe brush shoulders? Fuck no—Craig had been waiting since the fourth grade for this. He wasn't going to waste even just another night waiting now.

Even sitting around Harbucks until closing proved to be a lot more troublesome and boring than he thought. All they could do was _talk_: Talk about coffee and how it related to people (Tweek's philosophies intrigued him); talk about algebra tests and English papers; talk about Cartman dressed up as some raccoon-'super' hero trying to purge the crime bustled white-bred mountain town of South Park. Talk of Bebe Stevens and Cylde Donovan's relationship, what Bebe had told Tweek and what Cylde had spoken about to Craig were swapped and analyzed for no other reason than Craig wanted to keep Tweek talking. Talk about family life and how Craig had to find a job before the summer or his parents shipping him away to summer school. Talk about staying up at all hours, afraid to sleep because the underpants gnomes were raiding Tweek's dresser drawers late at night to pilfer his boxers.

Talk of what they were going to do now.

Were they going to date? Tweek had blushed entirely pink when Craig mentioned it, whereas he couldn't wait to spirit him off to movies and gay-ass dinners for the two of them.

Were they going to tell anyone about it or keep it secret? Tweek opted for secrecy, afraid of what everyone else would think. Craig had to agree with him, on some lesser level, so they unanimously decided to not talk about it in public or to do things that might set off red-lights.

And, Tweek had to ask, were they going to—

He didn't even need to finish his thought because _yes,_ they were going to do _everything_. Date, hold hands, kiss—fuck—it didn't matter. Craig was greedy by nature and he wanted it _all_.

Besides, where was the fun in being chaste?

Exactly.

But, for now, talking worked. Until eight, that was, when Tweek would close shop and Craig could walk him home.

The clock read seven-thirty whenever Craig finished another smoothie. He was beginning to feel sick but knew that if Tweek offered him another one, he'd take it. And down the entire glass.

With nothing to distract him now, he settled his chin into his hands and watched Tweek converse with a costumer, hurriedly backing away a few seconds later to prepare his order. An espresso shot and a

dollop of whipped cream later, Tweek handed the man his cup in exchange for a few bucks, efficiently tucking it away in the money drawer as the man left.

". . .what was that?"

Tweek shut the drawer and turned to face him. ". . .w-what was what?"

"_That_." He gestured at the door. "What that dude bought."

"Oh. . ." Tweek looked over at the doorway, rubbing a hand over the exposed nape of his neck. "It's. . . it's called Espresso Con Panna. . .w-which is Italian for espresso with cream. . ."

Huh. It didn't sound like it'd taste very good. Bitter, for one thing. A cause of heart palpitations for another. "Didn't look like it tasted that great. . ."

"It doesn't. . ." Tweek picked up a rag and started to wipe of the countertop. When Craig didn't say anything, Tweek went on, conscious of the unspoken question. "P-people don't get it for taste. . .a shot of espresso will—gah!—wake up j-just about anyone."

"At nearly eight in the evening, though?"

"Mr. Morison works a grave-yard shift," he confided.

Craig blinked slowly, feeling tired himself. The black tea in his smoothies had a lot of caffeine in them, sure, but he'd drank so much and was starting to come down from the high. "Oh."

A few minutes passed in silence, only disturbed by Tweek's caffeine-induced tics. Craig still watched him, eyes lining out the curve of his cheeks, the line of his jaw, the haphazard strands of his hair. And when he picked up a mug to take a long draft of coffee, Craig realized something.

Tweek told him the reasons people chose certain drinks, like his mochachino and the Chai Tea that suited him better, but never once went in to what _he_ drank or why.

So he asked.

"What about you?" Tweek set down his mug. It made a hollow, empty noise as it met the counter. "What's in your mug?"

"It's just coffee, man," Tweek muttered, hands fidgeting to his hair.

"What kind?"

". . .just. . .coffee."

Craig frowned softly. "Okay. . .what's that mean? What kind of people get that?"

He pulled at his hair, suddenly reaching out to grab the mug, walking it over to the sink so he could wash it. ". . . Ordinary people."

Ordinary people?

He went on: ". . .p-people who aren't very special at all. . ."

Tweek thought he wasn't special?

Fucking _hardly_. Anyone who could come up with a psychological definition for each size, mix, and brand of Harbucks coffee wasn't a run-of-the-mill simpleton. Not that Craig had ever believed that before, when he didn't know Tweek had that secret talent.

And it bugged him that he thought that way.

Really, _really_ fucking bugged him.

Tweek was special. More than special. He. . .he was like those Chai Tea Latte Smoohie whatevers he drank—he had all these different flavors that made him entirely unique and very _un_ordinary. But when he tried to tell him that, Tweek ignored him and continued to clean up.

Eight o'clock had rolled around—finally, though Craig wasn't all that glad anymore—and he had to wipe everything down before he could leave.

Craig helped, washing down the few tiny tables crammed in to the café and stacking up the chairs. He even swept the floor and mopped it for Tweek, who was stuck scrubbing out a layer of crusted milk from beneath the steamer.

Despite that set back, Craig had saved him half-an-hour of work and soon enough, Tweek finished and gestured at him as he headed towards the door.

It was still snowing. Not little flurries as it had been earlier, but heavy snow drift that clung to every available inch of both of them—hair, hats, lashes and clothing. They looked like walking snowmen as they headed home which would have been funny if Tweek hadn't forgotten his jacket at home. He shivered worse than Craig had ever seen before.

"Fuck, dude—" He quickly peeled off his coat and handed it to him. Tweek refused on the grounds that, "we agreed to k-keep this secret. . ."

"Shut up and put the damn thing on. . ." When Tweek didn't, Craig yanked it over him, tugging it down so his arms were trapped inside. "There. Warm now?"

Tweek nodded, though he frowned at him. "Wh-what about you?"

Craig always layered up and today was no exception. He wore a thin black hoodie—enough to keep him warm until he got Tweek to his house, which was just a couple blocks from the shop.

"Fine. Let's go."

And they did.

And, Goddamnit, it was fucking quiet.

Neither of them spoke—Craig because he couldn't think of anything and Tweek because he was too busy blushing and studying the feel of Craig's jacket. The few blocks melted away like the snow would come June and, sooner than Craig'd hoped, they were at Tweek's house, climbing up the stairs to his front door.

He touched his shoulder when they came to a stop, casting a distasteful glance at the door. Tweek looked down at their shoes, nervous and shaking. What now?

Craig had never had a girlfriend—never fucking liked the bitches and their drama—or a boyfriend for that matter. But he'd seen movies. And in most of them, this was the perfect moment to lean down and kiss him.

He'd done everything else. Helped him at work, gave him his jacket, walked with him home. All that was left was a single kiss.

Fuck, he felt as nervous as Tweek looked. What if he didn't want to kiss him? What if this was going too fast? He didn't want to scare Tweek away, not after he'd waited so long to do _this_ with him. . .

But what was the point if he didn't _try_?

So, very gently, he lifted his hands to Tweek's cheeks and tilted his head up. His eyes were partially closed, weighed down with soft flakes of snow and his skin had a rosy flush to it—in part from the cold and from, he hoped, what they were about to do. And he leaned down, turning his head to the side so their noses wouldn't bump, and pressed his mouth lightly over Tweek's.

In the movies, the girls would croon about how they saw fireworks or heard bells when they had their first kiss but Craig didn't get that. What he got instead was the intense, rich taste of coffee, stained against Tweek's lips from constantly consuming it. It might've been far simpler than what he'd heard, but it was by far better.

Who'd want to see fireworks or hear bells ring? Those things never happened save on rare occasions. With Tweek and his taste of just straight-black coffee, Craig could easily be at home, brew himself up a pot of the stuff to drinks and remember now. Remember the cold of the air, the snow, the way Tweek unconsciously leaned towards him when he drew back as if he wasn't finished kissing him quiet yet.

That in itself was the magic of the moment and he couldn't prevent himself from sliding his mouth back to Tweek's to kiss him again.

When he drew back once more, he swept his lips over his forehead, lips pulled back into another smile.

". . .You are special," he muttered, pressing each word into his skin in the form of tiny, soft kisses. "More special than anything else I know. . ."

* * *

**A/N:** -frets- Ooooh--I have a speech in less than half-an-hour! I wanna puke. I hate this class!

It's the last one though. . .and I'll be going to Nashville for MTAC on Friday. . .so it'll be okay. But I hate it. I hate feeling the carnivorous butterflies sinking their sharp, little teeth into the the lining of my stomach. _Ugh_.

Okay, away with the sidenote--this is the _last_ and final 'chapter' to Cross Contamination, so I hope it ends well enough for you~

Actually. . .I had more ideas to cram into this one. . .but I ran outa time. See, this was a challenge. I was given three words (raccoon, conspiracy, and pillow) and 50 hours (two and a half days) to crank a story out. It was Thursday of two weeks ago that I finished this, and my deadline was the Friday after. I had to push my fingertips to the limit and pray I could ignore the carpal tunnel long enough to _win_ the challenge. Which I did, by the way~

Anyway, so their might, might, _might_ be a companion fic to this. Someday. Not soon though, as I may _fucking die_ giving that fricken speech. . . .ugh. ugh. ugh!

I'm going to go prepare for that some more. . .

I don't need too.

But it'll make me feel better.

Review and help kill the butterflies :( ?

--Ele.


End file.
